Fight or Flight

[Whit]

The clean up job itself did not take long. Really all he had to do after scrubbing the room down was hose it off with some water, scrub again, and then follow that with a secondary rinse. The large drain into the sewers in the very middle of the room took care of the problem from there, eating up the evidence of his potential wrongdoings. After that, he carefully finished dressing himself, slipping on his long striped socks, his leather and brass clasp Oxford shoes. They were a simple tan colour and well polished, which was why he had been careful to keep them away from both water and cleaning agents. His outfit was perfectly pressed, and by the time he made it through the double doors, he was clipping his Deadpool bow tie into place. The very center of it had the anti-hero's insignia and the rest was red and black. Normally he would not have used a clip tie, but the appeal had been too overwhelming for him not to indulge.

He stood there for a solid minute maybe, watching as Peter went to great lengths to re-arrange his merchandise. More likely than not, he would end up having to move things back into place for sale. His expression was unreadable, flat really. His eyes always looked just a little bit distant, like he wasn't entirely in the midst of any situation, but rather somewhere else. He had never quite been able to fix that, but he soon approached the man and reached for a few of the books that had gone undisturbed thus far so that he could pick them up, clasping them to his chest. He looked for a moment as if he might flee with them. Perhaps with the intention of saving just one section of the store from his sire's obsessive compulsive disorder.

Instead, he took a step towards Peter. "Where do you think these should go?" He asked, before holding up a stack of identical booklets for the other man's inspection. Much as he might have been annoyed only moments before, he was not a creature who held onto that sort of thing. His scorn might have been a cold thing, but it also tended to be very short-lived unless someone went out of their way to be a thorn in his side. He was especially forgiving of people he cared about, and Peter certainly fell into that category. Besides which, the whole re-arranging of his shop, much as it would likely be a headache later, was endearing in its own way. A reminder that Peter was never going to truly change.

And that had been what Whitaker had asked for hadn't it? Something that wouldn't abruptly alter. A fragment of his life that he could look towards as a sort of anchor. In that way; it was comforting. Especially as a vampire, when it seemed like everything was constantly changing. Curses. Blessings. Powers. New people to the lineage. Nothing ever truly stayed the same did it? His lips tugged faintly at the corners; and though none of his stark ivories were revealed, it was something of a smile. "I also have some collector's items you may want to take a look at."

A day...night in the life, it seemed.

[Peter Parkman]

Any other person might have been tempted to sit and read. To be distracted by the issues that they did not have; to want to buy them, and take them home. Peter was rather pedantic about his collections, though. They took up a special corner of his office, slowly expanding each day. All his first editions from childhood were all plastic-wrapped and locked away in a safe—he would take no chances. It wasn’t as if he ever wanted to sell them. It was something more precious than that. Like saving that one aspect of his childhood that never caused him grief; the way he would always buy two copies. One to keep and one to read. One that could get wrecked, should he be bullied, but the other that would always remain safe.

The comic books had always been an escape. The characters and scenarios within were always so far out there, so unbelievable, so logistically unreasonable, that Peter was able to fully suspend his disbelief. If he could let go of fact and instead immerse himself in fantasy, then everything was okay. For those hours in a day that he would sit and read, he was completely content and happy.

It wasn’t so easy anymore. He was a vampire. Fae were real. Zombies were real. Magical abilities and powers. It was as if he had been dunked headfirst into fantasy and it should have made him happy. And he was still trying to figure out whether he was happy. If one’s fantasy became reality, then what does one use to escape?

Peter took the proffered comics from Whitaker and gazed at them for a few seconds, taking note of edition number and publication date, before sifting them onto the right shelves.

”This just makes more sense,” Peter said. ”To split them up by franchise and order them according to issue number. I know some places like to place them according to perceived order in which they should be read, but that’s a biased opinion,” Peter explained. He liked things to be structured in a way that everyone could understand, not in a way that was understood and perceived only by one person who might then try to push their perception on others.

It seemed by Whitaker’s question that he wanted to lure Peter away from the job that he had started. But to do so would be dire; to Peter shook his head.

”Just let me finish and then I’ll come and look,” he said. It might not have been intended that way. The slight smile that Whitaker gave to Peter only encouraged the man to continue, to keep re-ordering and tidying. At least he was mostly calm, now.